


I knew it was love (and I felt it was glory)

by whalersandsailors



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Epistolary, Happy Ending, Lieutenant Jopson, M/M, Major glossing over of 19th century British postal services, Not quite fix-it but happier than canon, Post-Canon, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Victorian equivalent to sexting?, plus some of the letters get spicy, with enough SAP to rot your teeth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 11:00:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18603178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalersandsailors/pseuds/whalersandsailors
Summary: After their harrowing rescue from the Arctic and their return to England, the newly promoted Commander Little and Lieutenant Jopson strike up a correspondence. What follows is a bond deeper than either man has previously known; and the unveiling of a slow, budding romance.





	1. a heart whose love is innocent

__ July 1849

Dear Mr. T. Jopson,

Word of your confirmed promotion by the Admiralty has reached me, and I wish to extend my sincerest congratulations. Never has there been a more deserving man. Captain Crozier informed me that you are visiting his country home near Brighton for a fortnight in September. I am sad to say that I will have missed you by mere days as I am needed in London. I am considered for a commission on the H.M.S. _Daphne_ for a voyage to the Indies. All things considered, I hope it will be a pleasant return to sea.

Write to me, should you have the time.

Regards,

Edward Little

Post script: How is your brother? Francis mentioned that he had fallen ill, rather seriously.

* * *

 

__ July 1849

Dear Lieutenant Little,

Or should I write Commander? You are not the only one who wishes to extend congratulations. It was generous of Capts Crozier and Fitzjames to extend their recommendations for you and Lt Le Vesconte. I am shocked that they included me in their glowing reports. Amazing to think how our past expedition was applauded so strongly, in spite of the hardships. I certainly don’t feel like a hero. My heart is heavy thinking of all that we lost, of the men who didn’t come back.

Mr. Blanky was a fine man. I miss his humor, however inappropriate or foulmouthed he could be. He never failed to make Francis laugh. My thoughts are also with Dr. Goodsir—and Drs. Peddie and MacDonald, for that matter. But Goodsir especially was kind to me when I had taken ill, and for his sake, I hope his death was quick and merciful.

I was unaware that you were so quick to return to sea, though I understand men like us grow uncomfortable on solid land. My feet feel heavy, and every time I close my eyes, I am haunted by the memory of the ice and the rocky wasteland of the Arctic. I hope that you are appointed for the journey.

Thank you for inquiring after my brother. He is faring much better. He is joining me in my visit to Francis’s home. The doctor suggested a change of scenery, and I think the warm air will be restorative.

There is much more I wish to add, but perhaps another time. I prefer conversation to correspondence. Should you be accepted for the commission, how soon does the ship depart? Perhaps we can see each other in London.

Please write back.

Your friend respectfully,

Thomas Jopson

* * *

 

__ August 1849

Dear Mr. Thomas Jopson,

Your reply came quickly. I am glad to hear that your brother is well.

I cannot write long as the hour is late, but I wish to recount the day’s events while the memory is fresh in my mind. Commander Fitzjames visited today. Apparently, he is renting a small house a short distance away, and after watching both he and Captain Crozier at dinner, I firmly believe that his choice of residence is no coincidence. It gladdens me to think that the two men who, at the beginning of our Arctic journey, could barely exchange a single word without reproach have grown so like brothers. Fitzjames walks with a pronounced limp now but is otherwise the picture of perfect health. That hardly deterred Crozier from watching his every movement with a hawk’s precision. He would practically leap to Fitzjames’ side every time the poor man stood.

 What surprised me is how Fitzjames seemed to enjoy the attention. I know from experience that Crozier is a fiercely private and stoic man, but he took every opportunity to lay a hand on Fitzjames’ shoulder or grasp his elbow. He always had a fond smile in place. I envy their camaraderie. If anyone deserves happiness, it is our captain.

I don’t blame you for relating our time North. I fear the Artic will always stay with us, on the edge of our dreams and in the ache of our bones. I never feel truly warm anymore.

Regards,

Edward Little

Post script: I apologize that I forgot to mention my possible departure date. Should I be accepted for the Indies expedition, the ship leaves in March next year.

P.P.S. I cannot sleep. I heard the clock downstairs chime for two o’clock, but every time I try to close my eyes, I am transported to years past, and I can’t shake the feeling that I am drowning and freezing all at once.

 [S _crawled in tiny letters along the margin of the paper_ ] I wish I could delay my return trip to London long enough to see you.

* * *

 

__ September 1849.

Dear Edward,

May I be so bold as to call you by your Christian name? I recall your invitation for me to do so, which I take you up on now. I would like if you called me Thomas.

I understand the pull of formality as I catch myself calling Francis ‘Captain' every other sentence, and he always glowers at me which is exactly how I expect a Captain would react. When I point this out, Francis frowns more, much like a disgruntled bulldog. Surely, he understands that I only tease him as there is a glimmer of mirth in his eyes, a spark that he lacked in his drunkenness and at sea. He seems years younger which astounds me. After our northern ordeal, I feel as though I aged decades.

My brother adores Francis, which — although surprising —  should be good for him. Luke is terribly shy, but he hangs on Francis’s every word, soaking up his tales of sailing and the Arctic. Francis is not much for storytelling, but I assume my brother's earnest attention spurs his words. Fitzjames, of course, is the more eloquent of the two and, during his frequent visits, he gladly adds flair to each of Francis's yarns. Both men avoid the more gruesome parts of the journey; deaths are brief and mentioned with somber faces. The monster itself has been dethroned to simply a bear. Sometimes, I prefer the false memory of a large white bear, as opposed to that foreign entity that stalked our every waking breath.

But enough of the Arctic, and more of your observation of Francis with James. Their intimacy was assuredly not your imagination as James has joined us nearly every evening for dinner this week, and once we retire to the parlor after, it is not uncommon that the pair will remain deep in conversation, sitting so close that their knees and shoulders brush together, long into the night, even after my brother and I go to bed. It is a wonder, isn’t it?

[S _everal scribbled out passages; a word crossed-out, the black ink ripping into the paper._ ]

We, all of us, are changed. I feel separate from friends, family. Every face has a strange quality to it, as though nothing about home is familiar any longer. I cannot begrudge Francis and James for their attachment to one another because I do the same with [ _blacked out_ ] Crozier. Even under the heat of an English summer sun, the memory of cold, hunger, and illness endures.

I don’t want to end this letter on such a melancholic note, so here’s to a better topic. Luke is convalescing well and should have a clean bill of health once we return home. We’re currently sharing a room in Marylebone. How long will your business keep you in London?

Please write back.

Your friend,

Thomas

* * *

 

__September 1849

Dear T,

I will be in London until early October. I do not want to impose on your lodging since I am a stranger to your brother. There is a pub on the corner of Trumbull Lane and Lansing Street in the Strand called _The Kingscrown_ which I frequent on Sundays. Meet me there in a week’s time from noon until three o’clock.

I’ll watch for you.

Warmest regards,

Edward

P.S. I have taken the liberty of including a belated birthday gift. It’s not much, but I hope you enjoy it. Donne’s sonnets in particular are very good. I marked down some of my favorites, if you’re curious.

* * *

 

__ September 1849

Dear Edward,

I realize I leave for London tomorrow, but I could not wait until I see you to respond. Your gift is thoughtful if unexpected. Something as harmless as a small volume of poems brought a rush of memory back to our first year on _Terror_. Do you remember? You and Lieutenant Hodgson set aside extra chocolate and tobacco—far more than my usual ration. When you handed me that small bundle after the officers’ evening meal, I was confused. First, by how you even knew it was my birthday (and please sate my curiosity: did Francis mention it?), and second, by how sweet your smile is when you’re bashful. It was a delightful respite from the rigid Lieutenant to whom I was accustomed.

Forgive my sentiment, but it was a happier memory from our late expedition. I cling to those.

I will see you very soon.

Yours,

Thomas

* * *

 

__ November 1849

Dear T, my friend,

I apologize for waiting this long to write. My family is exhausting at the best of times, and since this is my first visit since returning to England, my parents and sisters are in rare form. My mother soundly chastised me for postponing this visit before she burst into tears. She kept commenting on my weight as well and how horrid near starvation must have been and how she needs to fatten me up. I know I’m thinner than I was four years ago, but I did not think the change was that drastic.

I’m sorry. Here I sit, writing complaints about my mother when you spoke with such a sad reverence for your own. My mother is a beloved woman, and I am glad that she is still with us. You would like her.

My youngest sister is also recently engaged, which is surprising as she typically deferred to the older girls. At any rate, the topic of marriage became a favored conversation topic. My father asked me if I planned to settle down soon, since he believes a ‘successful’ man my age should have a family. I hope that this does not mean I’ll have to suffer through the bombardment of my parents’ suggesting eligible women. It is bad enough that my mother is near force-feeding me. Marriage does not interest me, and I think that most women are wisely disinclined to marry a man always gone to sea and on measly half-pay while on land.

Is your brother settling in his new job? I imagine that a bank clerk is a sufficient start to a good career. As for you, how have you been this past month? I had a wonderful time seeing you. I almost did not recognize you since you kept your beard. It gives you an air of sophistication. It suits you.

I’m returning to London in early December.

I want to see you again.

I’ll be there longer this time, until the departure of _Daphne_ next year. I have arranged temporary lodgings in London, not far from yours. It would be nice, should you visit for tea.

[ _The handwriting is noticeably shakier, the pen pressed too hard against the parchment, saturating corners of the letters with too much ink._ ]

I want to see you.

Edward

* * *

 

__ December 1849

My dearest Edward,

Dearest. Edward. I’m giddy. I feel like an infatuated schoolboy, but I write this by your side, in your bed, by the glow of a candle. And I know this is so much more than infatuation. I hope you feel the same.

Let me describe to you how perfect this moment is: how I want to steal this hour from time and hold it close to my heart while you are at sea and miles from my arms.

It is early morning, a quarter past six. The windows are curtained against the darkness and the cold. The only light comes from the bedside candle, and its orange glow is cast across the quilt and across my lap where I balance this paper against a book. You’re close enough that I can feel your warmth seeping into the quilt and my leg. Your face is peaceful as you sleep. All tension is gone from your mouth and forehead, though I can still trace the faint crease of wrinkles across your forehead and in the corner of your eyes. There is a curling lock of hair on your temple, and I gingerly brush it aside, kissing your smooth skin where it had lain. I must resist the urge to smother you with kisses on your brow, your cheeks, your mouth, your neck. I’m recording this moment, and I would hate to wake you.

It would be dishonest of me if I wrote that I have never dreamt of this. That when I first laid eyes on you on _Terror_  and when I served our Captain — your dark and handsome presence always close by — that I did not imagine how you would feel in a lover’s embrace, how you might kiss your sweetheart, how you would make love to her.

I longed to be in her place, to press close against you, buttoned up with you in your greatcoat, to feel your hands on my skin, and for you to wring from me a heavenly pleasure while I kissed you until I was breathless. I must confess that you were the subject of many nighttime phantasies, where I would envision you coming to my cabin where we would slowly undress one another and then lie together on my bunk, as I imagined how warm and intense the pleasure would be when we moved together, our bodies molding together like a single being.

Duty and circumstance kept me in check as I am sure it likewise restrained you. But we are still alive and here. In this small bed, in this perfect room, our own private Eden, shut in from the damp of London. The reality of holding you in my arms, feeling your mouth on mine, pressing you against the bed, your hands on my back, my shoulders, my hips, and every sigh that spilled from your sweet mouth; all of it far exceeded any desires I tucked away for years.

I am excessively happy.

You’re stirring. I need

* * *

 

__ December 1849

Thomas, beloved,

The new year is nearly upon us, and I count down the days til I return to sea. I wish you were here now, but I feel selfish wanting to hoard every minute of every day. Your brother was not too concerned when you did not return that evening, I hope? As much as I do not regret a second of that night, I don’t want to put any strain on your relationship. I know he's the only family you have.

It feels like a dream, almost. Whenever I close my eyes, I can see you standing in my doorway, your gorgeous eyes fixed on mine and your smile timid — as though you arrived unannounced or that I did not invite you. When I last saw you in September, I was frightened that you would be different than I remembered you. That our tragedy reshaped what kind of men we are. That the shared disaster would make us hard and unforgiving.

Your smile erased all my worries, and I felt warm for the first time in months.

While I was away with my family, I could think only of you and how much I missed your company. Ironic how my parents spoke of my marrying a nice girl when you consumed my every thought. It was agony waiting until I could see you again. A grotesque part of me relishes the notion of how aghast the public would be to learn that two of the surviving officers from the great Franklin Expedition found physical comfort and pleasure in one another. Easier for them to pity us as survivors than to scorn us as sodo—

I find I can't write the word, even in jest. That was inappropriate of me. I apologize. Ours is a precarious situation, and I am acutely aware of the legality of it. Nothing will keep me from you, but I know we must be discreet.

I'm reminded of an evening in the whaleship, shortly after our rescue. The ship was tiny, as I remember, and even with our numbers dwindled down to twenty odd men, we must have been a burden on the whalers. At least ten of the men were gripped in the throes of scurvy or that insidious poisoning. A couple men died, and Mr. Bridgens seemed beside himself.

Francis, too, was restless. I think he (same as I, same as others) was afeared that the whaleship was an elaborate hallucination, like the mirages that mocked us on the blinding Arctic horizon. He spent most of his time flocking from Fitzjames’ side to yours, to walking among the men, offering words of hope and claps on the back. Every evening, he secreted himself to the deck where he would watch the water.

I was scared to be near you, petrified that you would succumb to illness, after everything, after the impossible miracle of rescue. The looming threat of your mortality finally compelled me to your side. I don't know how much you remember. You seemed tired but aware. I may be describing a memory you recall just a clearly as I.

But I want to tell you of the courage it took me to do something as small as hold your hand and brush your knuckles with my fingertips. Every breath you took was labored, and I would gently squeeze your hand, too cowardly to say much beyond your name. I would whisper _“Thomas”,_ and your eyes, your beautiful sea green eyes would open and look – not at me, but through me as though you were incapable of believing I was there.

I wanted to say more, but my cowardice was too strong. I wanted to kiss you because I was afraid that I would never have another chance.

Francis interrupted before I did anything unwise. He looked exhausted, and his eyes glanced where I quickly released your hand.

He sighed. “Walk with me, Edward.” Spoken like a request, not an order, but I nonetheless followed him to the main deck. He led me toward the bow, far away from the working whalers and any prying ears. For a long while, he leaned on the railing, not looking at me, not saying a word.

I joined him; he looking toward the water, I turned to face the deck and staring up at the mast and the fluttering sails.

Francis at last spoke, slowly, ponderously, “I am in no position to presume what lies between you and Mr. Jopson.”

I turned to him, starting to interject, but he waved his hand. “Let me finish. That man, Thomas, is one of the finest crew I have ever had. Same for you. Both of you are good men and part of the reason any of us survived long enough for this whaleship to find us.”

He took me by the shoulders; his eyes were startlingly clear and blazing. “When we’ve returned to England, you treat him right. Treat him well, Edward.”

I felt my eyes start to burn, and while weeping brings me no shame, I didn't want to fall apart in front of our captain. I blinked away the tears, nodded, and said, “I intend to, sir.”

He slapped my shoulder, a wan smile on his face. “Good.”

I made a promise to our captain and to myself that day, a promise that I should have kept as soon as we arrived home.

If you will have me, I would gladly stay by your side for the remainder of both our lives.

Please do not think less of me.

With all my body, mind, and heart,

Edward

* * *

 

__ January 1850

My dearest Edward,

I was yours, long ago. You needn't even ask. My only regret is that I did not have you sooner. My stomach turns at the thought that had we died in the Arctic, I would have perished having never known your embrace and the softness of your kisses. It would have been a dangerous liaison for us to hide, not only for your rank and my good standing with the captain, but also because I would not have had the willpower to prevent my gaze searching for you. My hands would reach for you always, without a care for who might see and pass judgment.

Even now, I detest being alone and would rather be with you.

Come see me this Friday. My brother will not be home. Also, I have important news that I would rather give to you in person.

Yours, forever and always,

Thomas

* * *

 

__ March 1850

Dear Mr. Jopson,

 _Daphne_ departs in a week. I cannot leave without addressing our last conversation. I will not leave port, unsure if we shall ever see one another again and bearing the shame of how I treated you at our last meeting.

I am sorry. Truly, deeply sorry.

I’m afraid for you. I know that’s no excuse for my words.

I don’t understand why you pursued another voyage with the Discovery Service. But you’ve heard my opinion already, and the point of this letter is not to bombard you with my disapproval.

I do not want that argument to be how we part ways, should your expedition run into disaster. I said things which I regret. It was not my intent to imply that you’re incapable or undeserving. No, you are an excellent choice for lieutenant because you’re capable, and I realize in hindsight how unkind my words were. I was speaking out of fear for your wellbeing, and I beg for your forgiveness.

[ _There are several crossed out lines. Water stains a corner of the parchment._ ]

I can’t stop thinking about how you said that you do not publicly owe me anything.

You’re right. You don’t.

In the eyes of the Admiralty and England, we are colleagues & fellow officers, nothing more. But there are times when my feelings for you are so overpowering that I want to shout from the rooftops of my love for you, laws and prejudice be damned. I would take you in my arms and kiss you before the Queen herself!

I beg for forgiveness that I do not deserve, for I cannot bear the possibility that I have ruined us.

[ _Another scratched out passage._ ]

Please write back.

Regards,

E.

* * *

 

[ _Hastily written and undated on the back of Little’s previous letter._ ]

Edward,

I am my own man, and I did not take this position to vex you. I confided in Francis a few weeks past, and while he also expressed surprise, he agreed that a veteran of the ice is most useful on further Arctic expeditions. Don’t be cross with him, but I believe it was Francis’ recommendation that guaranteed my position on _Frontier._

I regret our last meeting. I was angry, and I realize that some of my words cut deeper than [ _crossed out_ ].

No, I think I did intend to hurt you, and I despise myself for that success.

You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. I don’t have much to call my own, and I foolishly pushed you away. I do not want to lose your respect or your friendship.

I will need the warm memories of your ardor where I’m going.

Good luck on your upcoming journey. I hope that it is a more pleasant experience than our most recent venture north.

Yours,

T.

* * *

 

[ _Fresh parchment; still undated._ ]

Thomas,

Let me see you before I leave. Please.

E.

* * *

 

[ _The same parchment._ ]

Yes. Tonight.

T.

* * *

 

__ May 1850

My dear Thomas,

I know that your departure was a month ago, so there is a good chance you will not receive this letter for months yet.

My return to sea has been an unexpected balm, though I miss your presence every day. The officers aboard _Daphne_ are friendly enough, but every evening I dodge their prying questions about my time in the Arctic. None of them have traveled to the ice, and they are all perverse with fascination on the engrossing topics of frostbite, amputated limbs, and exploding teeth. Having lived through such atrocities, I can firmly say that I don’t share their enthusiasm.

There is a strange sense of nostalgia, my being aboard a ship once more. We spent such a long time in the ice that the gentle bob of the deck below my feet is a comfort. Sometimes, at night especially, my ears fool me, and I believe that I can hear the groaning of the ice. Such false sensations trick me into thinking I am still on _Terror_ , and I catch myself searching for familiar faces around every corner. Then I remember where I am and mourn our lost friends all the more.

The _Daphne_ ’s journey South-west is a far cry from our last expedition that I feel oddly ill at ease. As though everything is too simple. That there must be something more to fear than the occasional case of illness.

My mind has time plenty to wander.

[ _A noticeable gap between the paragraphs, as though written in parts over several days._ ]

I dream of you often. Strange how many of those dreams transport me back to _Terror_. To the long, black winter days where we crowded in the ship's belly, guided only by lamplight. The dreams are scattered, and only some of them reflect genuine memories. Most of them involve myself, Francis, Irving & Hodgson, and a suffocating sense of impending doom. You’re there as well, always present, a near permanent fixture. In the dreams, I would find myself panicked, my heart pounding, but rather than looking to my superior, I would see you and feel a wash of relief come over me.

Other nights, other dreams, I will wake in my cabin, warm from the ghostly sensation of hands trailing down my sides and my legs, and warm lips coaxing my mouth open. I'll remember black hair and pale eyes at which point your face, smiling wide with your cheeks dimpled and your gaze hooded with lust, will reappear before me, and I cannot help but touch myself to the phantom pleasures you brought to me in sleep.

I've never been with a man before you, though I have found men handsome and enjoy the platonic company of men. But I’ve never been touched by a lover the ways you have claimed me and picked me apart piece by piece. I have never longed for someone as painfully as I do for you, and pleasuring myself at night in the privacy of my cabin is a poor substitute for your presence.

[ _Another gap._ ]

 _Daphne_ was caught in a squall off the coast of West Africa, and we lost two men overboard. Is it callous of me that I barely reacted? Death was so commonplace before that I find I cannot flinch as strongly at it anymore.

Once the storm passed, the sea was glassy calm, and the clouds parted enough for the deck to be illuminated by the waxing moon, glaring down at us like the eye of an accusing God. We were unable to retrieve the bodies. Both were Able Seamen, and I only recall that one of the boys’ name was Farrow.

I felt the need to confess that. That is not the kind of commander I want to be. I must do better.

[ _Another gap._ ]

We dock in Cape Town tomorrow, so I will have a chance to send this letter to you. I hope that your expedition North-west has been successful but uneventful thus far.

Please write back, should you have the chance.

Yours,

E.

* * *

 

__ August 1850

Edward, dearest,

I write this quickly that I may send it off before we leave all civilization behind. I did not forget how pernicious the chill is here during my short respite in England, but I am still miserable with the cold. I'm numb or shivering all the time. Though I suppose that I must accept that it will only worsen as we near the winter months.

I miss you as well, and your words, their passionate candor nearly more than I can bear, will have to be ample company in the weeks to come. It is too great a temptation to use the quiet and lonely hours of the night to take myself in hand and imagine that it is your hand or your mouth instead. When I have more time, I’ll touch inside myself, remembering the weight of you on top of me as we lay chest to chest, your mouth pressed against my neck—how full you made me feel, and how addicted I became to that pleasurable burn between my legs.

I think of your hands, as well. How my skin trembled under their touch. How strongly they grasped my legs, near hard enough to bruise, and how they pull me close to you. Oh, I await the day I return to England so that I may have you instead of memory. I close my eyes and feel you. For a second, I can imagine replacing my fingers with your—

[ _A jarring scratch of ink across the page, that blurs into the last line of the previous paragraph, has ripped a tiny sliver into the page, as though the paper was quickly yanked out of sight._ ]

Damn my blush and how easily it springs to my cheeks!

The other officers believe I have a sweetheart back home, and they enjoy teasing me for it. I let them tease since they are not incorrect in their assumption; I simply keep the details to myself. Besides, most of them use the jokes as an excuse to reflect on their own wives, and any interest in unmasking my mystery lover is quickly gone from their minds.

All else is well. _Frontier_ is sailing smoothly. Foreign as it feels, I'm adjusting to the duties of an officer. Shouting orders is not one of my preferred activities, but in time, I imagine that it will become easier.

I do not know when next I'll be able to write, but I hope for the best for my ship and yours. Take care of yourself.

Be safe.

T.

* * *

 

_[Undated, unsent.]_

T, it is winter here, but you would not know it. The heat is blistering.

The _Daphne_ spent nearly three weeks in doldrums in the Southern Indian Ocean. The men wept with relief when the sails picked up wind again.

I have read and read again your last letter until I knew every word by heart.

It's late, and I know I should sleep. But I had a startling dream where we never left the Arctic, where each of us died in increasingly bizarre ways, where many of us resorted to animal barbarism, cutting into each other like monsters. I saw the remains of friends and crew alike; but I couldn’t find you. The bodies lay on the rocks like abandoned dolls, and with each corpse I turned over, each face I studied, I couldn't find yours.

I find that when I close my eyes, I forget the finer details of your face. The exact timber of your voice and the cadence of your words grows faint.

It was just a dream.

You are safe. You must be safe.

* * *

 

___ April 1851

My dear Thomas,

I hope that this letter is not in vain, but it is in God’s hands when it may reach you. No word of _Frontier_ , and the Admiralty is treating the lack of news as ordinary, that all is well. You and I know from experience that is not necessarily the case. If your ship is a far inland as _Terror_ and _Erebus_ all those years ago, I fear for the worst, and I pray every day for your safe return.

 _Daphne_ ’s voyage was brief, and I am returned to England now. I am wary to request another commission until I have news as to the conditions of your current expedition.

My thoughts are with you. I look forward to reading your response.

Yours,

Edward

* * *

 

___ July 1851

Dear Francis R. M. Crozier,

I hope this letter finds you in good health. I learned of your official retirement. I am a bit surprised, considering your wealth of experience and heroic return to England, but a man such as yourself deserves the right to rest.

I purchased a copy of the memoir the Admiralty was so keen on you publishing. I have not yet read it, but I am curious how much you included the truth or how much the biographer forced your hand to sanitize – or worse, sensationalize. The public seem to enjoy gorging themselves on gruesome tales. I will never understand why.

Is Brighton where you plan to keep permanent residence? It is a nice house. The southern climate seems to be good for you. Visiting you last year was the high point of my summer.

Does Captain Fitzjames stay with you often? You seemed close when I last saw both of you, and I wish the best for both of your retirements.

I also wanted to inquire if you have heard any news of the Discovery Service’s most recent voyage with her ship _Frontier_. I am curious if there has been any gossip among the Admiralty of the expedition’s whereabouts or impending success.

[ _A shaky hand._ ] Please respond.

Your friend and colleague,

Edward Little

* * *

 

__ July 1851

Edward,

That book is better suited for kindling, and I hope you give it the end it deserves. If given the choice between writing a memoir or being court martialed for what transpired in the Arctic, I would rather have been stripped of my titles and left to rot in shame. I feel like a sodding peacock on parade.

Naturally, Lady Jane loathes me with even more fervor. I regret deeply how Sir John died, but if I informed Lady Jane of such sentiments, she would likely emasculate me on the spot.

You are always welcome to visit. In fact, I want you here. I find retirement dull. As a young man, I had planned to die while in Her Majesty’s Service. I almost don’t know what to do with myself.

Good thing you’re fond of James’ overbearing presence since he has become a permanent installation here, God bless that buffoon. He seems to thrive on all the talk circulating over two retired naval officers housing together. I would rather not bask in the attention, but James flourishes in it. Silly man.

Write back when you are available to visit again.

Sincerest regards,

Francis Crozier

Post Script:  Edward, you’re less subtle than you think. I know you worry for our dear boy Jopson, as do I. The Admiralty has been tight-lipped about the whole affair, but same as they did for _Erebus_ and _Terror,_ there will not be rescue attempts for years still.

Be patient, hard as I know that is.

* * *

 

__ September 1851

Dear Francis R.M. Crozier,

Thank you for the invitation to your home.

I am mortified by my last days with you. It was not my intention to burden you with my concerns, and I detest how I collapsed before you that one evening.

I feel like a coward apologizing this late after the fact, but I couldn’t bear to say this to your face. I’m envious of you and Fitzjames. I wish you happiness but cannot help but feel bitter in my wishing. I no longer deny my intimacy with Thomas, since you have conjectured the nature of our relationship from the beginning. I appreciate your discretion.

I will try to not bother you further in this matter.

Regards,

Edward Little

* * *

 

__ September 1851

Edward,

I accept your apology, unneeded as it is. I will write you should I hear news of _Frontier_ though I doubt it will more than what you already know.

I am a realist to a fault, but in the case of _Frontier,_ I recommend hope. Their voyage is in good hands, better I daresay than our ill-fated expedition.

Be well.

Francis Crozier

P.S. Christ, you are not a bother, and don’t you dare imply that again.

* * *

 

[ _Undated, unsent._ ]

Mother is writing to me about suitors again. You would think she has no other children given the extent of her attentions. I know she means well, but I wish that she would leave me be.

I use my career as an excuse, which satisfies my father, mother—not as much.

I need to get off land again. Maybe then she’ll stop.

[ _A gap, same parchment._ ]

My dearest, Thomas,

If you are still alive and well, please spare me a place in your thoughts. You have consumed every part of my mind. Everything reminds me of you. A more eloquent man would write ballads about your beauty, your generosity, your kindness. I do not trust my ability to string together the words, but I read a few lines of verse that comforted me in your absence:

O Fame, if I e’er took delight in thy praises

Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases

Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover

She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

[ _A few drops of water blur the final line._ ]

 

 

Thomas, please come back to me. I beg you.

* * *

 

[ _Unsent._ ]

Thomas,

Francis insists I be patient, but I fear for the worst.

Still no word of _Frontier_.

My body feels stripped of its skin, some naked nerve. Most things pain me. Everything else irritates.

Every night I dream of you, but the dreams are becoming frantic. Harder to follow.

If only I could summon you before me by my will alone. Then I could assure myself of your safety.

I love you.

More than anything I have loved before or will love again.

I wish I had told you the words before you were gone forever.

* * *

 

__ April 1852

My most beloved, dearest, holder of my body, owner of my heart,

I send this letter with the utmost expediency so that I may spare you unnecessary suffering. I know these months of silence have been agony, but rest assured that once this letter reaches you, I will be in an English port.

 _Frontier’s_ expedition is as much a success as Sir James could have anticipated. We were stuck in ice since winter of 1850, but following an early spring thaw, we were able to break through enough to return to open water and begin sailing home.

Still no progress on the mythic passage, but would you believe instead the miracle we received?

Dr. Goodsir is alive. Our crew made contact with a Netsilik tribe in the summer of ’51, and I don’t doubt that the doctor would have blended with the natives undetected had I not been present. He approached me, and I daresay I would have never recognized him dressed in sealskin with long hair and a big black beard. After the hardships and the years that separated us, he and I embraced that day like brothers reunited.

Dr. Goodsir acted as our translator from that moment on (even now, aboard the ship, he has resumed his dictionary with gusto), and when the doctor and I related our final days together back in 1848, Sir James was particularly interested in the remains of the other lost men.

Harry seemed hesitant, but I was able to win him over. He took us to one of the locations of the mutineers’ final camp. None of the natives joined us to which Dr. Goodsir explained that the site was regarded with “much deserved hostility.”

—Why? I remember asking him.

He lowered his voice as he confided in me: —It is where the Tunbak died. It’s where they _all_ died, as a matter of fact.

—How did you survive?

His smile was sad. —Luck. Absolute luck.

Concerning the creature, Dr. Goodsir and I shared a dreadful secret as the unspoken understanding passed between us that no Englishman knew the full extent of the horror which hunted us during our time trapped in the ice. He and I did not mention anything of the Tunbak to Sir James.

What remained of the mutineers’ camp was in tatters. Their tents and sledge were ripped apart. I refrained from examining the bodies too closely, as all of them were in varied and horrible states of decay, some bodies ripped beyond recognition. I do not regret deaths of those detestable mutineers, but I felt sorrow learning the ends of good men such as Lt Hodgson and Mr. Diggle.

The body of the creature was removed. By whom or how, I cannot say, and Dr. Goodsir—probably not wishing to speak of the matter where others could hear us—did not lend any answers. A morbid part of me wanted to see it dead, as confirmation of its existence and that the monster wasn’t some poison-induced hallucination.

I am curious to see how the papers will react to our bringing back a changed Dr. Goodsir. Or if the papers will update their story with the doomed fate of our lost crewmembers. I doubt it. Among the bodies, there was evidence of horrid things, self-mutilation and cannibalism. Dr. Goodsir explained as much. His eyes were faraway when he spoke of that.

I’ll write again once I am on land.

Your friend,

Thomas

P.S. I must see you. Tell me the place, and I will be there at once. You still have my heart, and I hope that I still have yours.

* * *

 

**_THE ILLUSTRATED LONDON NEWS_ **

_NO. ___ | FOR THE WEEK ENDING SATURDAY, MAY ___ 1852,   |  Sixpence_

_Polar Explorers – Sir James Ross and Company return as heroes; Doctor of ill-fated Franklin Expedition found ALIVE_

“The Admiralty received Sir James Ross, Capt _____ , and fellow officers for the congratulatory celebration of their successful return from the Arctic. There was significant Progress toward the anticipated discovery of the North-west Passage, and Sir Barrow speculates that a trade route to China will be found within the decade…

…Mr. Henry Goodsir, assistant surgeon of the HMS _Erebus_ , found alive among local…

[ _Below, an artist’s etching, a Romantic portrayal of the Frontier cresting a formidable, white-tipped wave, surrounded by small icebergs in the water; accompanied with the caption “The HMS Frontier during her brave voyage to the Arctic, Summer of 1850.”_ ]

* * *

 

__ June 1852

Dear Thomas,

It is like a dream, having you home again. Though we have been parted again for only a short few weeks, I impatiently await when you will be at my side once more.

I have made the arrangements for renting a small cottage in Hollingworth. You may join me once you are able past the first of July. It is beautiful here, quiet, but most important of all, it is private. We shan’t be bothered here.

I look forward to the hours spent in nature, the days in your company, and the nights in your arms.

Give Luke my regards.

Your love,

Edward

* * *

 

__ June 1852

Dear Edward,

I think Luke is secretly happy I’m leaving. He’s at that age where he’ll be most content without his older brother pestering him. Though I will miss him, our relationship typically thrives when we’re not in each other’s hair.

I’m sure the cottage is lovely. Anywhere with you will be lovely.

The train for Manchester leaves in three days’ time. The minutes til then will feel like an eternity, more than the months I spent in the Arctic. No train or carriage can travel fast enough, but I shall have to be patient until I can hold and kiss your face, which I thoroughly long to do for many, many years to come.

With most tender affection,

Yours forever,

Thomas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The excerpt of poetry shared by Edward as well as the fic's title are taken from Lord Byron's "All for Love" which you can read in its entirety [here](https://www.bartleby.com/106/169.html).
> 
> Additionally, the titles of the chapters are from Byron: "She Walks in Beauty" and "Remind Me Not Remind Me Not," respectively.


	2. when all my soul was given to thee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Script (An Epilogue).

The nib of his pen scratches quietly against the parchment as Edward attempts — for the third time this week — to put his feelings into words worthy of the Romantic poets that Edward reads in (slightly) embarrassed privacy. It is early, his only light a low burning lamp, and he has tucked himself into the small, east-facing study where he has a pile of fresh paper and the solitude of his jumbled musings. He thinks of the journal entries and unsent letters where he scribbled excerpts from his favorite passages or where he attempted a poor mimicry of the verse. He writes a word, sighs, scratches it out. All his lyrical efforts pale fantastically next to the subject of his ardor.

The floor creaks behind him, by the study’s door, and Edward cannot help flinching when he looks over his shoulder to see Thomas. The man is in his nightshirt, wrapped in a blanket. His hair is a mess, and he rubs one of his sleep-filled eyes as he comes closer to Edward.

He kisses the top of Edward’s head and pulls a stool close to Edward so that he may lean his head on Edward’s arm.

With a self-conscious hand hovering over the unfinished poem, Edward asks guiltily, “Did I wake you?”

His eyes half closed, Thomas shakes his head. “The bed was cold.”

“Sorry.”

“What are doing that has you awake before dawn?”

Edward’s lip work soundlessly before he musters enough courage to mumble, “Well, it’s for you, but it’s not finished.”

Thomas perks at that and sits up. “Now I must know. What is it?”

“No, it’s silly.”

“Let me look.”

“No, Tom, please, _Tommy_ —”

Thomas manages to snatch the paper from under Edward’s fingers, and feeling his face begin to flush, Edward watches Thomas with wide eyes as the man reads his poor excuse for verse.

Edward cannot stop the increase of his pulse as a smile grows wide on Thomas’s face, but when his eyes meet Edward’s, there is no mockery there but warmth and the shine of tears.

He leans forward and presses an unhurried kiss on Edward’s mouth. Hesitant at first, Edward slides his hands up Thomas’s legs as he relaxes into the kiss. His grip tightens when he feels heat begin to coil in his groin, and he moans softly.

He moans again when Thomas breaks the kiss, a mischievous smile on his face. To Edward’s chagrin, Thomas raises the parchment and starts to recite.

“Tom, _please_ —”

“Hush.” Thomas waves a hand. “Let’s see where it starts: From sea to shore, I watched you rise, alight, / More bright and fair than maids of myth and lore…”

Edward scratches at his whiskers, his eyes staring down.

“Your love, a cherished boon and my delight, / Would leave my heart in agony for more.” Thomas continues; “And something _my heart_ , _which shall never depart_ , something, something about a bird, my eyes…”

“ _Thomas_.”

Thomas looks at him, the smile fading to something small, something equally sweet as he deposits the paper back onto the desk.

“No one has ever written poetry for me,” Thomas whispers, and with a kiss on Edward’s forehead, he murmurs against his skin; “I love it.”

Relief floods through him, but still feeling residual embarrassment, Edward gushes, “But I love _you_ , and nothing I write does you justice. You’re, well, you’re _you_ , and everything about you is admirable and wonderful.”

Thomas looks taken aback by the confession. His eyes are wide, and his mouth slightly agape. For a suspended moment, Edward wonders if he said too much, made his confession too strong, but Thomas dashes his worries to pieces when he grips Edward by the hips – the man’s strength always a surprise to Edward – and pulls him onto his lap, both of Edward’s knees pinching the sides of Thomas’s thighs. Thomas guides Edward’s head down to press their lips together, and his hand stays loosely tangled in Edward’s hair as Thomas deepens the kiss.

For a brief moment, Thomas pulls away, nuzzling along Edward’s chin.

“I think it’s perfect,” he murmurs, punctuating his conviction with another kiss. “And as much as I look forward to reading it when it’s finished, I’ve had enough of your _words._ Right now, I only want the man.”

Less gently than before, Thomas pulls Edward into an open-mouthed kiss, thrusting his tongue into Edward’s mouth as Edward groans and slides his hand against Thomas’s jaw, still unaccustomed to the coarse hair on Thomas’s cheeks. Edward scoots closer, sighing as their hips press flush, hot where he can feel Thomas’s arousal through thin layers of cloth. The stool tips dangerously under Thomas, but before the two of them fall, Edward stands, taking Thomas by the hand and pulling him up. Their lips meet again, a shorter kiss this time. Edward extinguishes the lamp behind him, and in the darkness of the cottage, Thomas leads him from the study back to their bedroom, where Edward knows they will lie for hours and make love until the sun is high above their heads.

“Oh, and Edward?”

“Yes?”

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check me out on [tumblr](http://whalersandsailors.tumblr.com)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [love him well](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19129870) by [wildcard_47](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47)




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